


Wounded Ego

by DisasterScenario



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Awkward Friendship, Discworld - Freeform, Gen, general interaction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 10:35:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1547561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisasterScenario/pseuds/DisasterScenario
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set a few months after the events of Men at Arms, Vimes is a little early for his appointment with Vetinari and encounters a situation he definitely wasn't expecting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wounded Ego

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for the end of Men At Arms!
> 
> This is just a little situational humor and some musings on the relationship between Vimes and the Patrician. Not very slashy but there is some snarking.

Sam Vimes reached the palace already 10 minutes late for his meeting with Vetinari. He’d been meeting more and more regularly with the Patrician these days. The more they took on at the Watch house the more the man seemed to hand over to him. Vimes sometimes wondered who had taken care of all this business before he came along—or at least, before he’d started actually doing a proper job instead of just ringing bells in the middle of the night—well, occasionally ringing bells. All right not ringing bells at all—just sort of, well, drinking in the gutter had been a big part of it.  
Vimes sighed as he mounted the innumerable steps towards the Oblong Office. He had been right in the middle of going over the new patrol routes with Carrot and Angua when he’d remembered this inconvenient little meeting. He was glad he hadn’t missed it—that would be worse—but at the same time he couldn’t help but resent the fact that he was constantly being called away from real work to stare impassively at a wall and be talked down to by a man whose life he’d saved only months ago.   
He still marveled at Vetinari’s inability to even let slip even the tiniest bit of gratitude. I mean, yes they hadn’t figured it out until Cruces was able to blow a hole in Vetinari’s leg, but seeing as that hole was supposed to be through his head, Vimes considered the whole affair to be an overall victory.   
He entered the small waiting room outside of the Patrician’s office and moved towards the door. Drumknott, Vetinari’s personal secretary, called out to him from across the room.  
“Commander Vimes?” The thin man sounded confused. Vimes waved the man away.   
“I know I know, I’m late. But the yard is getting busy these days-- and I might just be inclined to point out that this meeting was scheduled a bit last minute.” Drumknott cut in front of him right as he was about to seize the door to the office.   
“But sir, your meeting with Lord Vetinari isn’t until 4:00 this afternoon!” Drumknott looked at the Commander in horror, virtually blocking the entrance to the door with his slight body, as if waiting for Vimes to try and shoulder his way through.  
“What?” Vimes stared at him blankly, then turned to look at the slightly tock-handicapped clock. It was 3:10. “I was sure it was supposed to be at 3.”  
“No sir, it was most definitely at 4, his Lordship wanted to give you plenty of time to coordinate your new patrols for the evening.” The clerk continued to stand in front of the door like an overzealous bouncer at the Pink Pussycat Club. Vimes stifled the urge to curse, and instead made a sound that was halfway between a moan and a growl. He pinched the bridge of his nose.   
“I am sorry sir, but if you’ll be kind enough to wait I’m sure Lord Vetinari will be able to see you shortly.”  
“There’s no chance I could just see him now and get it over with so I can get back to my real work, is there?” Drumknott didn’t say anything, although he did have the decency to give Vimes a pained little smile as he retreated back to whatever little corner he had sprung from.

Vimes looked around the deserted room and sighed. He would have stomped back towards the line of chairs against the wall, but he was tired, and stomping would only do so much to assuage his frustration. The Commander of the Watch sprawled into one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs and let out a long breath, letting his head loll back and smack against the seat back slightly harder than necessary. He knew there was no chance of the Patrician making any concessions for him.  
A short while ago he had blearily stumbled into this office, still shaking off the previous night’s drink, and barely kept up with Vetinari’s pointed commentary. What incentive had the man to interrupt his schedule for Vimes? He was the commander of a barely functioning police force—he had no political power, even if he was a lord now.   
He sighed and prepared to settle in and wait until 4. Any other man would have taken into consideration the fact that 8 months ago Vimes had stopped Vetinari from becoming human swiss cheese—but somehow Vimes wasn’t surprised the Patrician was able to completely disregard that fact in favor of the one glaring reality that Vimes was not as smart, competent, or powerful as he was, and Vimes had better well remember it, no matter how many improvements he made to the Watch. He sighed again and listened to the slightly off kilter clock tic away the minutes.

Vetinari realized he had paperwork to attend to. But then again, he always had some kind of pulped product that would demand his attention, and right now he was trying not to let himself be taken in by the allure of the quiet, mind numbing, entirely cerebral haven that his desk would allow him. Instead, he concentrated on the long rubber cord wrapped around his ankle and the sheer force of will it was taking him to stretch it taught against the side of his leg.   
He’d sent Drumknott out. He probably could have used the clerk’s hands, but this was a routine his pride demanded he accomplish alone. Vetinari didn’t often give in to things like pride or ego without putting them through a long logical breakdown before hand, but pain had a way of fuzzing by logic and wheedling past political correctness, so he elected to take care of this problem alone and unhindered by social niceties.  
He gripped the edge of his chair tightly as he tried to get his leg to do what he told it. His wound was healed now, but the gonne had torn through his muscles as easily as a hand through a spider web, and it had taken him months to even be able to stand again without biting the insides of his cheeks with pain.   
He managed to pull his leg to about a 45-degree angle. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead and he was grinding his teeth as his game leg trembled against the resistance.   
Leonard of Quirm had designed the simple little device to be the most efficient method of returning maneuverability-- apparently this also made it the most wrenchingly painful exercise Vetinari had ever forced himself to practice. A small moan slipped past his clenched teeth as he struggled to pull his leg up even farther and he clamped his tongue down, muffling another grunt of pain as his heart hammered in his chest. He finished the rep and sat, gasping a bit, trembling with the effort and allowing a soft curse to float into the evening air.  
It wasn’t something he was used to doing. The small frustrations of politics and petty society squabbles he dealt with didn’t really call for the kind of expletives that Vimes took such comfort in. Although Vetinari supposed that if he had to chase down miscreants by foot on a day-to-day basis he would probably adopt Vimes’ penchant for them. He began another slow extension, trying to focus his mind on the problems at hand instead of on his screaming leg.   
The Patrician was blessed with a brilliant mind—his focus and ability to creatively problem solve were second to none, but focus and creative problem solving were of little use when one of your body parts was spasming and sending your whole body into violent shakes at the first mention of the words “physical therapy”.   
Vetinari squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to go back over his meeting with the Uberwaldian diplomat word for word.   
He felt the spasm in his hand first. He hadn’t noticed his hand clamped down over his scarred thigh, but when his leg bucked against the restraints he felt the muscles cramp and twist into knots under his skin even before the jolt of pain slammed him back in the chair.

Vimes knew screams. He was familiar with them. Every night watchman was-- there were the midnight shrieks of things that weren’t quite human, the domestic dispute screams that so often echoed out of open doorways when the bars closed, and the only choices left were home or the gutter. Screams of surprise, often followed by groans of dismay when someone realized their Thieves’ Guild insurance had run out. There were all kinds of screams, and Vimes had heard them all. Which is why, when he heard this scream echoing out of Vetinari’s office he was up and into the room before it had even died away—his hands up and ready to deal with whatever assassin was after the Patrician this time.  
He was surprised then, to find Vetinari, alone, sitting, and his body quite devoid of protruding knives and/or crossbow bolts. Vimes couldn’t see anything that could have possibly caused the Patrician to scream the way he had, and he was suddenly overtaken by a sickening dread that he’d imagined it and walked in on Vetinari doing something with that odd contraption of wood and rubber strands that didn’t even bear thinking about.  
Vimes froze in place. He’d acted out of instinct, the scream had been one of agonizing pain—and in Vimes’ experience agonizing pain usually meant someone was trying to inflict agonizing death and just hadn’t got to the final bit yet.  
Vetinari was frozen as well. He was still shaking, and his whole body felt as weak as a wet paper bag. He stared at Vimes, clutching his chair for support, thin strands of hair drifting over his damp forehead as his leg sent echoes of it’s original protest screaming through his nerves. 

The two men stayed like that for a long time; Vimes’ brain wasn’t really processing the situation farther than “You just burst into the Patrician’s office shouting and waving your hands, completely uninvited.” And Vetinari was still riding the waves of pain emanating from his wounded leg.  
Finally the Patrician turned and smoothly (if a little shakily) pulled the small device from his leg, trying not to move it more than was absolutely necessary, and still grimacing a bit as he unstrapped it. Vetinari’s movement broke the spell. Vimes put down his arms and stood; uncertain whether he should just go back to the Watch house and pretend none of this had ever happened.  
“I had not thought to see you before 4:00, Commander.” The Patrician’s voice came out a little ragged, to his own chagrin, and he cursed again, silently this time.  
“Oh. Well I—mixed up the, err, the time.” Vimes’ finished haltingly; still incredibly unsure of what was going on. Not an unusual state for him to be in, Vetinari thought vaguely.  
“Ah.” Vetinari finished pulling the device off of his leg and placed it gently on the table beside him.  
“But you…” Vimes trailed of, gesturing half-heartedly with his hands. Vetinari sat back and started at him with raised eyebrows, Vimes gave up and closed his mouth.  
“Well, I suppose since you are here already…” Vetinari tried to stand up with his usual fluid grace, even with all of his weight on his good leg it was a painful movement and he sucked in a little gasp, grabbing the back of the chair for support. Vimes stared at him in surprise and moved the tiniest fraction toward the Patrician as if to help. Vetinari gave him a look that stopped him cold.

Vetinari stood for a moment as the pain faded, pushing his hair back into it’s proper place and brushing off his shirt in a carefree manner that was in such stark contrast to his grim face and still trembling hands. When he felt he could make the transition without too much loss of dignity he managed to half hobble, half pull himself back to his desk and into his usual chair.   
Vimes just stared at him through the entire slow process. The man certainly had a way with his eyes. No wonder criminals crumbled before him, his gaze was just so-- so keen. Like he was taking in every movement, every small struggle, and was frustratingly aware of just how hard the whole thing was.   
Vetinari stifled the urge to get the man out of his office as soon as possible. He did have things he needed to discuss with the Commander, no matter how inopportune his entrance had been, or how uncomfortable his bland gaze was.  
“Now then, Commander. Tell me about Monday’s riot.” He glanced down at some papers on his desk. “I understand it was something to do with a clown, an unlicensed thief, and—correct me if I’m getting this wrong—the entire brass and woodwind section of Mrs. Bartholomew’s Dockside Charity Band?” Vimes continued to stare at him. “Oh, and of course, a significant amount of whiskey. But I suppose that goes without saying.”  
“Sir…?” The honorific was hesitant, and Vimes was still staring at him, as if unaware that now was his cue to chose a spot on the wall right above the Patrician’s head and spout out his “yes sirs” and “no sirs” in perfect unhelpful chorus. Vetinari sighed. Things were so much simpler when Vimes was just another drunken, hopeless city employee.  
“Vimes, I don’t have time, nor the patience to dance around this today. Just tell me if the situation has been taken care of, and if you need anything from me in order to complete your duties.” He realized he was snapping the words out like a whiplash, but he didn’t have the sufferance to be bothered about his tone right now.  
“Yes, sir…” Vimes was at a loss. He’d known the injury had been bad, but at the time he’d been congratulating himself that they hadn’t been carting the Patrician off in a hearse.  
“You needn’t worry about the Thieves Guild. I’ve taken care of Boggis for you-- and the Fool’s Guild. The hapless chaps are both completely under your jurisdiction.” His head ached. The painful stretches were exhausting and he’d finally let his frustration creep up on him.  
Vimes’ brow settled over his eyes. His features smoothing back out into the hooded, guarded blankness that Vetinari had come to associate with the man. His back straightened, his arms fell into their usual stiff position at his sides, and his eyes began to drift back towards his favorite spot behind the Patrician’s head.   
Vetinari relaxed a fraction. This he could handle, even in his weakened state. He knew he was being rude and the man’s concern had been genuine—but he had no use for genuine. It didn’t help them deal with the matter at hand and it certainly didn’t help his leg feel any better.   
He shuffled the papers on his desk again and only let the tiniest of grim smiles twitch over his face as Vimes gave him the best and most deadpan “Sir” he could muster.

On his way back to the Watch house Vimes wondered about Vetinari. He’d known the man for a long time—although “known” was probably not the right word, it implied some kind of understanding, and Vimes certainly didn’t understand anything about the Patrician except that he was slightly less miserable and despotic that any of the other rulers they’d had in the last century. Probably. Maybe only the last 70 years or so.  
Vimes had been annoyed at the Patrician’s dismissal. He could see the man was in pain; he didn’t have to have some kind of damn political agenda to acknowledge that, did he? What kind of man takes a tiny note of sympathy and immediately treats it like a political coup? Vimes sighed. He supposed that Vetinari had to be that way. Running a city like Ankh Morpork meant you didn’t let your enemies see your weaknesses, and everyone was an enemy.   
On the whole Vimes would be inclined to agree that people were generally, petty, disagreeable, selfish, nasty little buggers, but at least he had people he could rely on. People like Carrot, and Angua, and yes, even Nobby and Colon. They were still selfish, disagreeable buggers, but they were dependable in a fight. Well, Carrot and Angua anyway.   
Vimes tried to roll some of the tension out of his shoulders as he approached the Watch house. Giving up the Patrician problem for the much more agreeable, and much less frustrating day to day problems that—while still enough to make a grown man want to tear out his hair and kick small animals he found in the street after a bad day—were nothing compared to trying to fathom Vetinari.

Vetinari watched Vimes’ stolid march through the palace grounds from his seat by the window. His leg had ceased sending it’s loud complaints to his brain, and he was actually fairly comfortable now. Vetinari knew he’d been unfair to the Commander—but Vimes really shouldn’t have been there until 4 anyways.   
He sighed. He’d certainly put Vimes through much worse than his bad temper—and he would certainly again. The Patrician returned to the innumerable papers littering his desk. He didn’t have time to worry about the Commander’s feelings—even if he had been inclined to do so in the first place.   
Vetinari stared at the papers in his hands, his mind still on Vimes. He was… embarrassed the man had seen him in such a state. He was actually embarrassed that Vimes, Vimes—a man who had only months ago stumbled into his office still reeking of last night’s binge, a man who could barely follow a hint even if you smacked him in the face with it, a man who was so stubborn and pig headed he had actually told Vetinari to shut up—twice—Vetinari reminded himself. He was embarrassed that such a man had seen him at his weakest; and he was annoyed that he was embarrassed. It was such a ridiculous state to be in. Vetinari shook his head and put it all down to stress from his wound. Pain played all kinds of tricks on the mind—he was certain this little incident was nothing more than a trick of his nerves and he would be perfectly sane again in the morning.  
Drunknott’s soft knock broke him out of his reverie and he called the clerk in with a word.  
“I did tell the Commander you hadn’t expected him until 4:00, your grace.” Vetinari didn’t look up from his paperwork.  
“I’m sure you did, Drumknott.” His quill made a few precise marks on the parchment before he continued reading.  
“I never expected he would just—well, burst in like that.” The clerk fidgeted in discomfort even at the mention of such a strict taboo. Vetinari sighed.  
“I don’t believe there is a force in this universe that would be able to stop that man if he thought a crime was being committed. “ He looked out the window at the darkening skyline. “This, or any universe.” The last part was almost to himself, and he looked like he was someplace else. Drumknott took the sign and disappeared silently through one of his many side doors.  
Vetinari shifted his bad leg, it protested and he gave it it a stern look. He was a patient man, his leg would heal, and he had no doubt that the perception of his physical disadvantage could be used to his ultimate advantage—just like everything else.   
He turned back to his paperwork and descended once again into the familiar cocoon of political backstabbing and social upheaval he knew and loved—well, he knew it anyways, and as long as nothing in the paperwork required him to get up and do a jig, he was satisfied.


End file.
